


The Cuckoo's Agenda

by vanillafluffy



Category: Alliance-Union - C. J. Cherryh, Cyteen - Fandom
Genre: Alliance-Union, Bechdel Test Pass, CJ Cherryh, Cyteen, Cyteen/Regenesis, Gen, MissesClause2012, Union-Alliance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:30:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is more than just a scientific breakthrough on the table when the second Ariane Emory meets with a spacer of humble origins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cuckoo's Agenda

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cordialcount](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordialcount/gifts).



> My dear recipient, I am taking you at your word. Your letter said, "If you've been wanting to write any fic in these fandoms and just need an official recipient to get it out of your head, here.". This idea, about a young woman confronting Ari II with an important discovery and suspicions about Ari's part in her life, has been incubating for a while, and I thank you for the chance to present it to an enthusiastic audience. Enjoy, and happy holidays!

Alpha Station above Cyteen, 2478 A.D.

The formal business suit feels stiff and too tight. Grette eyes her reflection in the sleepover mirror dubiously. The shop assistant had vowed that this was the proper attire for an important meeting in Novgorod. She's seen other women on Alpha Station in similar garb, but left to her own devices, she'd just as soon wear an ordinary shipsuit.

Sometimes, you just have to do what you just have to do, at least that's what Captain Piers says. The meeting is absolutely necessary, and if she's got to attend it in this straightjacket of a suit, so be it.

Her hair is in order, her face is clean. She refused Arabella's offer of make-up. There's a limit to how far she'll go for correctness; she wants to look like herself, not a painted doll. Bare-faced is as good as it's going to get.

When she goes down to the lobby, Captain Piers is waiting to wish her well, along with a surprising complement of _Rose Mahling_ 's crew. 

Her stomach knots at the thought of leaving them here, of going down to Cyteen. She's never been so far away from her Family or _Rose Mahling_ in all her 34 years; it's a scary prospect. Although she isn't a Pedersen by birth, she's been with them since she was eleven days old and they’re who she knows and loves.

"You'll do well, Grette," the Captain says, resting a hand on her shoulder. "I always knew you would. Don't let anyone rattle you. You're the one with something to say, say it."

"Yes, sir," she replies, standing a little straighter. It sounds simple enough: She'll present her discovery. Talk things over. Give the Councilor for Science the documentation to do with what she will—then she'll return to the station and her ship and get out of this damned suit.

The aunts and uncles and cousins all want a word with her before she leaves, although it's Aunt Pola and Aunt Perla she really wishes she could hug. She misses them both fiercely. Today is for them, she thinks; if her aunts hadn’t been so determined that she become a navigator, Grette would never have thrown herself into advanced studies and there would be no discovery.

"I've got to get to the shuttle," she finally says to extricate herself from the throng of Pedersens. "You know it won't wait."

Grette makes it to the shuttle dock in good time; they're still boarding, and she isn't the last passenger in the queue when she reaches the hatch. Her only baggage is a small portfolio, hand-carried, so there's a minimum of fuss getting checked in and situated.

She's attentive to the safety procedures lecture, although her fellow passengers are jaded enough to pull out hand-comps and ignore it. 

Piloting an in-system craft isn’t like navigating a deep-space freighter. She does the latter as a matter of course, doing the former again and again and again sounds like sheer drudgery.

In a few days, once they’ve finished loading, _Rose Mahling_ will undock from Alpha Station, outward bound. Grette feels a little flutter in her stomach as she thinks of Mateusz…their paths usually cross at Mariner. In a few weeks, ship-time…. But first—this meeting.

Drawing a deep breath, Grette glances at the contents of her portfolio. It holds her passport, a small bundle of credit chits in case she needs funds, the datastick with the files on her discovery…or should she say theory? No, because theory sounds too tentative; it will work, she doesn’t doubt that for an instant.

The woman she’s meeting with may not believe her, but it’s all on the datastick. Union’s scientists can review it, They’ll come around soon enough.

What does it matter what some bureaucrat on a planet thinks?

Not just “some bureaucrat”, she reminds herself. The Councilor for Science, Ariane Emory, the second…quite possibly the most important person in known space. That’s who she has to convince.

The atmospheric drag makes the shuttle vibrate alarmingly. Grette swallows against nausea and for a moment, she almost wishes she’d had the packet couriered to the Bureau of Science. But no, she has to do this—it may be her only chance to get answers.

Then the shuddering stops, and gravity kicks in, a gravity that’s fractionally less than what she’s used to. 

She feels off-balance, wobbling down the ramp at the spaceport. What she wouldn’t give for her regular magnetic ship-boots right now! Not that she’s going to float away, but something to help her feel more anchored would be welcome.

Looking around, there’s a lot of hard surfacing underfoot, stretching away into the distance. Above her, there’s no ceiling…Grette’s never felt so exposed. The bulk of the shuttle seems small in comparison to this uncontained vastness, and she looks longingly toward the buildings of the spaceport.

“Sera Pedersen?” A blonde woman waits near debarkation. She’s slender, wears all black, and presents an ID badge showing Reseune Security as her affiliation. “I’m Catlin AC. I’m here to escort you to your meeting.”

“Thank you,” Grette says, careful of courtesy. From what she knows of Union practices, the AC designation means this Catlin woman is azi, a person who was raised by tape instruction at Reseune. They’re common enough in Union space, but this is the first time anyone has introduced themselves as such to her.

Taking teaching tape bothers Grette—though entertainment tape is rarely a problem—she can’t imagine a life of studying nothing else. She’s always thought the idea of an artificially educated population odd, though Cyteen has been doing it for better than two hundred years. Both Ariane Emorys—the first and the second—have been responsible for the lion’s share of it.

She follows Catlin into the depths of the spaceport, away from the echoing plain of the landing field. Having a roof over her head lessens her anxiety, but not for long. Soon they’re in a vehicle being driven by a man in a black uniform like Catlin’s, and they’re zooming out into traffic.

“Are you all right, Sera?” Catlin asks when Grette gasps at what seems like a very near miss by another vehicle. 

“I’ve never been on a planet before,” she says, silently cursing the disadvantage she’s at with these gravity-dwellers. “It takes a bit of getting used to, I guess.”

“I’ve never been off the planet,” Catlin says, “and I can assure you, sera, the current conditions are quite normal. Furthermore, Rafael BR is an excellent driver. I anticipate that we’ll reach the Science tower without incident.”

Grette manages a smile of thanks. They’re rapidly threading their way between other vehicles on the roadway, coming into the outskirts of Novgorod. In the distance are tall buildings, the likes of which she’s only seen in entertainment tapes.

As they progress into the city, the various buildings around them block the view of the open plains, and Grette relaxes somewhat.

So many buildings. They spread out all around her, the city bigger than any space station could ever be. She has no desire to stay here, but it’s certainly worth a look around so she can describe it to the rest of the crew, most of whom have never been on a planet, either.

Merging into another thoroughfare, there’s suddenly something off to their left that puzzles her. Vehicles, but not cars, and not on a roadway. “Is that…water?” If it is, it’s by far the most she’s ever seen at one time.

“That’s the Novaya Volga river,” Catlin informs her. “The Port is across the river. There’s a clear view of it from the Science tower.”

Grette nods absently, staring at all the activity. If that’s water, those things in it must be boats…not old-fashioned ships with sails like the ones used in so many corporate logos. They’re a disappointment, very utilitarian and blocky-looking.

Perhaps she can get some pictures at the spaceport before she departs, something to show Mateusz—and her family, of course. She’s not sure her descriptive abilities can do justice to the broad swath of undulating blue-green. As she watches, they catch up to and pass a big boat that’s making its way through the water. She’s close enough to see the containers on its deck, not so different from the kind of freight containers she’s used to on station.

She’s sorry when they turn off the road beside the river, but Catlin points out landmarks for her: towers for the various government bureaus, a stadium for sports events that’s probably as big as _Rose Mahling_ herself, hotels, a medical complex…there’s a lot to see.

The tower for the Bureau of Science is a silver spire that makes Grette dizzy trying to look up at it when she gets out of the car. She closes her eyes briefly, then keeps her gaze at street level as she and Catlin enter the building.

The amenities of the Science tower don’t seem any different from the business offices on a space station, at least, one of the more upscale stations like Pell or Mariner. There’s quality carpeting underfoot, and a kind of hush in the lobby. It’s probably got tons of privacy shielding, she surmises. 

The lift isn’t much different from any other lift she’s been on, but the reception area they emerge in is downright elegant. The carpeting here is thicker. There’s a gold-colored light fixture bristling with spikes at random angles. The furniture is covered in a fabric that looks luxe, like something a really expensive sleepover might have.

So what? It may be impressive, but she’s _Rose Mahling_ ’s First Navigator, she’s not going to gawp as if she’s a junior-junior who’s never been out on the docks before. Grette straightens her shoulders, adjusts her hold on the portfolio, and follows Catlin into a conference room.

“Coffee, sera?” Catlin asks. “Sera Emory will arrive momentarily.”

Coffee sounds great. Maybe it’ll help sharpen her wits. She sets her portfolio on the conference table and smiles. “Thank you, Catlin. Coffee would be wonderful. Black, please.”

What she receives is a cup of the best coffee she’s ever tasted, and she says so. 

Holding the cup, she wanders toward the window, looking out at the dizzying cityscape. She can see two more spires like the Science tower off to her right. As promised, she can see the river, and has a fine view of the bustle at the Port. Beyond that are more buildings, and beyond that, more plains, stretching out to the horizon, far, far away….

A flutter of reflection in the glass alerts her, and she turns to see a man and a woman enter the room. The man has dark hair, and is dressed all in black, like Catlin. Yet another azi, she supposes.

She immediately recognizes Ariane Emory from the photos she’s seen. Counselor Emory is dressed in a suit not unlike her own, a relief on that point. Her make-up is flawless. She has dark hair worn up, grey eyes and appears to be about forty. Grette has checked her dates, though, and knows she’s almost twice that age. She’s on rejuv, of course. Most people start taking it around forty and don’t look any older until it stops working.

“Counselor Emory, it’s a privilege to meet you. I’m Grette Pedersen, of _Rose Mahling_ , First Navigator.”

“Your communication said that you have revolutionary information for my bureau,” Emory says, as no-nonsense as might be expected from such an important woman. “Let’s sit down and discuss it.”

The azi man pulls out a chair for Emory at the far end of the table from Grette. Catlin busies herself serving coffee to the Counselor. That’s fine with Grette, she’s happy to sit at this end, so her back will be to the window. Otherwise, she’d never be able to concentrate.

Grette sets the cup down carefully on its saucer, and reaches into her portfolio. Catlin and the dark-haired man are watching her closely. Reseune Security—of course, a woman as important as Ariane Emory has bodyguards. She takes no offence—but makes no sudden moves, either.

“What do you know about hyper-fractal wave-form particles?” she asks, withdrawing the datastick.

Emory smiles dryly. “Absolutely nothing, but Science has people who do.”

“Then you might want to give them this,” she says, holding the datastick up for Catlin to take to her.

“And what should I tell them it is?” asks Emory as she receives the stick.

There’s a caustic undertone to her words, but Grette isn’t intimidated any more. The fact that Ariane Emory is actually here, talking to her, means her suspicions are right, although she means to get confirmation if she can. 

“That’s going to give you faster-than-light-communications,” she says, and watches Emory’s dark brows arch.

Aware of the older woman’s appraisal, Grette takes another sip of her coffee, keeping her own expression pleasantly neutral.

“A method for faster-than-light communications,” Emory repeats, turning the data stick over in her fingers. “That certainly would be revolutionary.” Emory studies Grette as if she’s an intriguing specimen, the likes of which she’s never seen before. “It’s something we’ve been trying to develop since Bok gave us FTL drive two hundred years ago.”

Grette can’t quite suppress her smile. “That should do the job.” Emory herself has introduced the pachyderm to the discussion—Aunt Perla’s love of tapes about Earth wildlife has given Grette a broad range of metaphors. This one refers to something so big it can’t possibly be ignored in a small space.

“I’m curious, Sera, why an Alliance citizen such as yourself would bring this to Union.” Emory isn’t easy to read; her tone is casual, but her gaze never leaves Grette.

“Why shouldn’t I, Sera Emory? The Alliance and Union aren’t at war any more. They haven’t been in either of our lifetimes. It’s time to set aside this lingering us-and-them mindset; we need each other, and we can both benefit by sharing ideas.

“Technology has to be unilateral, otherwise humanity loses its balance.” Grette continues making eye contact with the older woman. “We start fighting about who has what, committing acts of espionage and terrorism—it’s counterproductive. Copies of that information are already in numerous black boxes on their way to Cyteen and Earth and all points between.”

“How very altruistic of you.” A bite of mockery is cloaked in the mild comment.

“Hardly. By disseminating this information as I have, I’ve made it very clear that I’m the source of this breakthrough. Credit it to me, to my Name and to my ship.”

“Self-serving, then.” Emory shifts in her seat as if she’s about to rise. 

Not just yet, Grette thinks. The FTL-com was only the first part of her agenda. “You could say that,” she agrees, refusing to be offended by the truth. “And besides, I believe I owe you my life; spacers always pay our debts.”

That has Emory’s full attention back on her. She settles back into her chair. “What makes you say that?”

“You, the most important woman on the planet, were willing to meet with a spacer brat from a minor Name. You agreed to the meeting on the basis of a very vague request. I’m reasonably sure you already knew who I was, although you probably didn’t expect to hear from me directly.”

She drains her cup, nods a ‘yes’ to Catlin’s unspoken offer of a refill. Emory is motionless, regarding her intently.

“You undoubtedly know that I came aboard _Rose Mahling_ from the birthlab at Fargone—they’ve has always had close ties to Reseune. I’m not, biologically, a Pedersen. I went to sisters, Pola and Perla, who were First and Second Nav, respectively. They wanted a child, but because they were both on rejuv, they had to adopt.

“As I was being carried out of the Registry office after the paperwork was signed, someone said, ‘She should be good at navigation’, which of course was exactly what my aunties wanted to hear. They didn’t doubt it, because everyone knows Union can select the traits it wants in its population.”

“You call them your aunts?” It’s an odd detail for Emory to have seized on.

“Ship ways,” she shrugs. “They couldn’t decide who was more my mother, and since they were sisters…what does that matter?

“At any rate, I heard that story often growing up and cursed it a lot, because I wasn’t naturally shaping up to be a navigator. I was hopeless, and tape only made it worse. The tape for hyper-math gave me blinding headaches, the one for hyper-space protocols made me vomit, and none of it made any sense.

“I was fourteen, almost fifteen. I was on my first dockside liberty, on Viking, it was, and I went into this little secondhand store in White Dock. I had some credits, and I was looking for something to read. There were a lot of tapes, and I was popping them into my hand-held, taking a look, I wasn’t even paying that much attention to the labels, I went down the shelf, trying one and the next and the next…. 

“Then I clicked on yet another tape, and there was an equation…” She still remembers that moment, that flowering of comprehension. “I looked at it, and it made perfect sense. The process was concise and elegant…I stood there, scanning it, it was like it was having a conversation with me. I know, that sounds crazy, but that’s what happened.”

Grette pauses, tastes the refilled cup, which is every bit as rich and satisfying as the first. “I bought the tape, of course, and got directions to a sandwich shop where I could sit and read.

“I was there for hours. I read the whole book from one end to the other, The equations had shape and form, I could almost see them suspended in the air in front of me, they were so clear. I pulled up all the lessons on my hand-held that had stumped me and went through and did them with the new method—they were ridiculously simple! 

“I made it back to our sleepover for curfew, but Aunt Pola was furious that I hadn’t checked in—“

Emory is getting impatient. “How does this have anything to do with why you somehow think you owe me your life?”

She’s getting to that. “Aunt Pola decided to punish me by making me do lessons during leave. Which I didn’t mind, since I understood how it all worked now. It wasn’t until a few years later that I figured it out.”

“There _is_ a point here?” 

Aunt Perla always said, a smile wins more friends than a frown.

“Yes, indeed.” Grette beams at Emory. “You see, the book was Bok’s _Spatial Mathematics_. I knew that Bok was the one who theorized FTL drive, of course, but that was all I really knew about her until I entered a contest on Mariner. The prize was a behind-the-scenes tour of their aquarium for the best essay about the person who had been most significant in our life.”

She looks steadily at Emory, who looks back at her with…what, expectation? Amusement? Certainly her expression presumes something of interest to be forthcoming.

“I found out that Estelle Bok started out as an ordinary navigator on an ordinary ship, and that she went on to develop the theory of FTL flight. She was brilliant, and after she died, there was an attempt to clone her, to recover that intelligence. It wasn’t successful; the clone was a pretty good musician—not surprising, since so much music is mathematically based—but she never went to space and died relatively young.

“Fast forward a few decades…to the death of your…what would you call her, your gene-mother? The first Ariane Emory. Another gifted mind that some thought the universe couldn’t afford to lose. You were raised in the place where she lived, by the people who knew her, and it was legally decided that you were her, as much as was possible.”

“The word you’re looking for is psycho-genesis,” Emory says with quiet approval, her expression less severe. “Mind cloning.”

“ _Successful_ psycho-genesis,” Grette points out. “Thereby proving it could be done. It wasn’t until I researched that essay that I first saw a picture of Estelle Bok, and I started putting the pieces together. 

“Me, coming from Fargone, with the suggestion that I be trained as a navigator. Fargone, with ties to Reseune, to you, the psycho-genesis success story.” Grette takes a deep breath, because what she thinks is logical, but it’s still built on a platform of hypothesis, not fact.

“In 2432, you assumed administration of Reseune—your gene-mother had held that position for many years. Seven years later, you were elected Councilor of Science, also one of your predecessor’s achievements. Between the resources of Reseune and the power of the Council, not to mention your own formidable reputation, you were able to launch your own attempt to revive Bok. You already knew what hadn’t worked with her, and what had worked with you.

“Bok’s clone never went to space and was raised a Unioner in what sounds like a very sterile environment. I think you figured that to regain Bok—or an approximation—you’d have to find a Family berth for her clone, to give her a chance to grow up in a similar milieu to Bok, though of course, she was a product of the sublight era, pre-War and pre-tape.” 

“Pure conjecture,” Emory says dismissively. “Just because you bear a coincidental resemblance—“

Grette laughs outright. “Being planet-bound, you probably don’t realize what a small universe it is, Sera. I’ve personally crossed paths with three other young women who are my age and look just like me. And oh, what a coincidence, they were all adopted from Fargone onto Family ships around 2444. Their ships all have very similar contracts for routes with regular stops at Fargone and/or Cyteen. Two of those women are also posted navigators, the other is a ferociously competent supercargo.

“This has been going on for years, practically since the first time I went dockside, but it wasn’t until I saw Bok’s picture, that I realized _they_ don’t look like _me_ , _we_ look like _her_.” 

“Have you mentioned this clone theory to any of them?” There’s an intensity in Emory’s voice that Grette doesn’t take lightly. She doesn’t want her gene-sisters to be harassed just because she’s fishing for answers. Those three are only the ones she's met personally; there are others, going by the number of people who've mistaken her for someone they know.

“I never mentioned Estelle Bok specifically, but everyone knows Reseune is used to producing babies en masse, so the women I’ve talked to most recently weren’t too surprised to hear they were multiples.” She gives Emory the most innocuous smile she can. If the others have contributions to make, they can do so on their own merits, without ‘help’ from Reseune.

“You must have thought spare clones were a good idea; psycho-genesis isn’t an established science. Why do one and wait decades to see if she’d be worthwhile? Accidents happen. Redundancies make sense. Ask any spacer.” 

She’s definitely not going to venture her private theory, that Emory is using them as test subjects for her own eventual third incarnation. Another of Aunt Perla’s scraps of knowledge comes to mind. “The more cuckoo’s chicks you could find nests for, the better your chances that one of them would provide a return on your investment. And I have.”

“ _If_ this process of yours works.” She isn’t denying Grette’s origin theory now; it still isn’t easy to read her, but her severity has thawed considerably.

“It’ll work. On behalf of myself and my gene-sisters, Sera Emory, consider our debts to you have been paid.”

There’s a little smile at the corners of Emory’s mouth. “I admire your confidence, Sera Pedersen. Mind you, I’m not saying that this notion of yours is true, but hypothetically,” she draws the word out, “if you are a clone of Estelle Bok, how do you feel about that?”

Another sip of coffee as Grette ponders this. She wasn’t prepared for this line of questioning; facts, not feelings, are what she expected to discuss. ”I admired Bok long before I ever saw a picture of her,” she says after a moment. “I understood her work from the beginning. I felt like she understood how my mind works. I suppose if you’re going to clone a mind, that’s the desired result.

“When I did put the pieces together, things made sense; other people don’t understand how I do most of what I do. Usually, navigators rely on meta-math and the computer to get a jump solution, instead of trying to wrap their heads around _Spatial Mathematics_. 

“As to how it affects me, personally, on a day-to-day basis, I’m not really sure it does. I have my ship and my Family. I love my position. I love my life. That’s more than a lot of people can say, cloned or not. Nobody asks to be born, but I’m not sorry that I was, whatever the circumstances.”

“Do you think believing you’re Bok’s clone had a bearing on your discovery?”

“I was already researching theories to achieve FTL-com when I found out about Bok. It may have given me a little more confidence that I would get it eventually, kind of, ‘If she could do that, I can do this’—but _I’m_ still the one who did the work.”

Ariane Emory nods. Her regard of Grette approaches benevolence. “I’ve often found that my own predecessor’s work seems like something I’ve remembered, it’s so familiar. It’s a foundation I can build on. Thank you for your…contributions, Sera Pedersen.”

She hasn’t admitted Grette is right, but the innuendo is there; it looks like that’s going to have to be enough.

“Thank you for your time, Sera Emory, and your excellent coffee.”

Grette retrieves her portfolio, rises, walks to the door with a nod to Emory in passing. Catlin accompanies her through the reception area and down in the lift.

They’re in the lobby when yet another black-garbed man gets out of another of the elevators and hurries over. He hands Catlin a small package, which Catlin hands to her. “Coffee for you,” she says by way of explanation. “With Sera’s compliments.”

“Please, convey my thanks to Sera Emory for her thoughtfulness.” She tucks it into her portfolio, and follows Catlin out to the car.

The drive back to the spaceport is not so fraught with peril. There’s less traffic, and they seem to be traveling at a lesser velocity. 

It’s late afternoon, and the sun is setting. The colors painting the long sweep of horizon help it seem somehow less threatening. It’s pretty, Grette thinks with a stifled yawn, unfastening the top two closures on the detested suit-jacket.

She replays the interview with Ari Emory in her mind. The little flickers of expression on the other woman’s face…the nod of recognition when Grette had said she identified with Bok’s work. She should have asked Emory how she sees herself. As an individual who will always fall under the shadow of the first Ariane? Does she admire her predecessor the way Grette admires Bok? Or is it a kind of competition, to do more for humanity, the better to leave her own imprint upon the galaxy?

Grette—and her gene-sisters—are under no such burden. They bear the Names they’ve been given, without the famous Bok Name to live up to, or the stigma of an unfortunate experiment to taint them. “I should have thanked her for that,” she mutters to herself.

“I’m sorry?” asks Catlin. 

“Please thank Sera Emory again for me, for giving me so much of her valuable time. I appreciate everything she’s done very much.”

“I’ll certainly convey that, Sera.”

With a satisfied sigh, Grette leans against the seatback. As important as Ari Emory is, being Grette Pedersen is better. She doesn’t need guards with her everywhere she goes, and she’s free to travel the stars. She doesn’t have to follow anyone’s agenda but her own.

Hopefully, their run to Mariner will bring them in sync with _Le Cygne_ again. Mateusz Reilly-Kreja may not be a genius, but he has a respected Name behind him. He’s a solid Helmsman and very good company. 

Grette’s plans call for a child, perhaps two, before she’s ready for rejuv. So what if their offspring isn’t as genetically finessed as Reseune or Fargone could render it? Random chance produced Estelle Bok, after all, though Grette’s primary purpose is to carry on the Pedersen Name. Crew succession is vital to _Rose Mahling_ 's future. Redundancy is a good idea…ask any spacer.

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**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Karaokegal for her beta skills. (You were right about everything, especially the lack of a KEL.)
> 
> .


End file.
